The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

  “Captain’s night orders, Mr. Carver?”

  “Call him for any break in the clouds, change of wind, change of weather, and any sudden loss of water under her hull. He’s concerned that we’ve had no reliable observation in the last—what is it, now?—twenty-four hours or so.”

  “Steering south-southwest by one-quarter west. I relieve you.”

  “Mr. Lennon has the deck!”

  “Da old feller’s concerned that she’s riding low in the water, Mr. Carver. Are we shipping any water forward? When’s de last time we checked da cargo? Been any shifting?”

  Carver was too exhausted to take offense about Lennon’s asking him about his responsibility. After a moment, he realized the second mate actually might be seeking some direction from him about the work for his watch.

  “I know, Mr. Lennon. I checked the cargo for shifting during the dogwatches with Chips. Everything is exactly as it was when we left New York. We have to be heavy by the bow from ice. That’s got to be why. You might have the hands see how much of the snow and ice we can get overboard. You also might want to send someone aloft to break the ice on the foot-ropes.”

  The ship’s bell sounded at the half hours of the watch. The men were kept hard at work attempting to remove ice as quickly as it accumulated. Henry Lennon formed a party of top-men and went aloft to attempt to get the ice off the foot-ropes and make sure the beckets were firmly attached to the jackstays and that they were sound. It was dangerous work laying out on the icy yard, but it was work that needed to be done if the ship was to be able to tack or wear or, for that matter, reef or make sail. The apprentices were sent aloft with the top-men.

  At eight bells, the weather started to moderate. Coffee was brought on deck at five. Breakfast was delayed in order to make sail. Bishop made fresh drop biscuits in addition to the pancakes and ham. The new refined white flour was wonderful; it didn’t spoil quickly. Bishop hoped to bake fresh soft bread later. The aroma would cheer the hands and provide him some relief from the smell of drying clothes hanging in his galley.

  ***

  Isaac Griffin had been on deck since about four in the morning. He knew that once the gale had passed, the sky might clear and an observation of the sun could be made to fix his position. If the clouds did not break, daylight might reveal landfall. Providence proceeded slowly southward under topgallants and topsails in light wind. The hours passed until five bells in the morning watch. It was pitch-black, but the moon began to shine through. At seven bells of the forenoon watch—

  “Land ho! Land ho! Dead ahead!”

  Griffin took his watch glasses to his eyes, observed the land on the horizon for a few moments, and then turned to Henry Lennon and said, “Cabo San Diego. Take a look. Staten Island should come into view soon and we can fix our position by two bearings. I recognize the outline from the coast pilot. We’re northwest of the strait.”

  At six bells Staten Island came into view. Griffin took bearings, Cabo San Diego due south, Staten Island to the southeast. “Tack her, Mr. Lennon. Tack ENE. When you’re steady on that heading, I’ll calculate how far we need to go to be ready to enter the strait.” Griffin knew the ship was set WSW at the rate of one and a half knots each hour. The result was that the ship had drifted west on the coast of Argentina and away from the Le Maire Strait. Griffin’s distance calculation was futile because the ship was becalmed near noon and cloud cover set in anew, dead reckoning again, but from a known position far less than two days old.

  Griffin knew he would have to wait until the wind favored passage through the strait and an ebbing tide would help in the transit. “It’s just as well we’re here. We wouldn’t make headway in the countercurrent in the strait. Secure the lead; I know where we are now. It could have been much worse. Damn, more lost time.”

  Thirty-Six

  Estrecho de Le Maire

  She came two shakes of turning top

  Or stripping all her shroud-screws, that first quiff.

  Now fish those wash-deck buckets out of the slop.

  Here’s Dauber says he doesn’t like Cape Stiff.

  This isn’t wind, man, this is only a whiff.

  “Hold on, all hands, hold on!” a sea half seen,

  Paused, mounted, burst, and filled the main-deck green.

  —John Masefield

  Thursday, July 11, 1872

  Lat 54˚10΄00˝S, Long 64˚50΄00˝W

  “With respect to this part of the voyage, whether to pass through the Strait le Maire, or round Staten Island, much difference of opinion exists. Prudence, I think, suggests the latter; yet I should very reluctantly give up the opportunity that might offer of clearing the strait, and therefore of being so much more to windward. With southerly wind, it would not be advisable to attempt the strait; for, with a weather tide, the sea runs very cross and deep, and might severely injure and endanger the safety of a small vessel, and to a large one do much damage.”

  —Admiralty South American Pilot

  Wednesday, July 10, 1872

  Three Bells, First Dogwatch (5:30 p.m.)

  Isaac Griffin and Peleg Carver were huddled beneath an overhead oil lamp over the chart for Le Maire Strait in Providence’s chart room. Scattered around the chart table were several coast pilots as well an older Maury’s Explanations for his wind and current charts. Peleg Carver was first to speak.

  “All these”—Carver pointed to Maury’s Explanations and the coast pilots—“do is tell you the strait is dangerous, ayuh? It’s your decision, Captain. Go now or go later, the damn weather can change three times before you leave Le Maire.”

  Griffin, irritated from days of calms since the Falkland Islands, replied, “I know all that. What I don’t know is your recommendation. Tell me.”

  Carver looked at his captain and said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Any choice we make will likely be wrong. Accept it and go when we have wind; just expect a fight to get through.”

  Griffin attempted to mollify Carver with a forced smile. “Show me.”

  “Nothing too bold or daring, Captain.” Peleg bent over the chart and with his finger laid out his plan. “Here’s the danger, these rocks off Cabo San Diego and the rocks here from Galeano to Peninsula Lopez. Now”—using the thumb and little finger of his right hand as dividers—“we keep a three-mile offing from the rocks on both sides, and when Cabo San Diego bears about ninety degrees off the starboard, about where my finger is pointing, we come to south-southwest by one-quarter west and make at least six knots or better through the water.” Peleg Carver stopped speaking and looked Griffin in the eye.

  “Here’s the beauty of it. The drop-off past Buen Suceso tells us when we’re in the southern half of the strait—low visibility—and on a south-southwest by one-quarter west course, we’ve room to wear in the southern half of the strait and make for Buen Suceso if we have to.”

  Griffin did not immediately reply; instead he traced out what Carver had shown him on the chart. “It’s going to snow, be a gale, maybe a bad one. The glass is dropping.”

  Carver laughed. “Well, we both got master’s tickets and eyes and ears. God willing, we’ll make it.”

  Griffin replied, “God willing—do you really believe that?”

  Eight Bells, First Watch (Midnight)

  Griffin had his wind and gave the deck to Peleg Carver. The barometer registered 29.8 inches and was dropping rapidly, and the tide was flowing into the strait. Yes, it would come, a storm and snow. It would be difficult to maintain steerageway until slack water and an ebbing tide. Eventually they would be blind and dependent upon Duder and Stedwin’s ability to hold to a course.

  Griffin had made this transit before, as had Carver. Both understood the tides; high water at Bahia Buen Suceso meant slack in the strait. But Griffin had lost days with the calm, and the current did set him westward of Cabo San Diego, causing the need to tack and lose ground. No more delay; he had waited on deck since noon of the tenth of July and he could wait no more. He felt the bonus money slipp
ing through his fingers.

  “Captain, I’ll use distance off to confirm our offing from San Diego, then Cook’s Road to see where we are in the channel. Make use of visibility while we got it.”

  The ship’s master smiled and replied, “Use your eyes if you have to. Put us in single-reefed topgallants on the fore and main. Both watches and idlers on deck.” Then Griffin placed his injured right hand inside his coat, beneath his belt by the watch pocket, and held the hand against his belly. The cold caused intense pain in the hand, and the risk he was taking had tied knots in his colon.

  ***

  At fifteen minutes before midnight, Priest felt Richard Ernst shake his shoulder. “On deck, P-Priest.”

  Priest quickly climbed into his wool trousers, wool shirt, sea-boots, pilot coat, and Scotch hat in the pitch black of the apprentice stateroom. He marveled at how cold it was and how the warmth of his heavy trousers seemed to climb up his legs as he raised them to his waist.

  “Thanks, Richard. What’s going on?” Priest rubbed his eyes.

  “We’re sailing into the strait.”

  The weather was overcast, but the waning moon was nearly full and filled the stratus clouds in gray light. All Priest could think about was snow. The cold, the humidity, and the chill penetrated the layers of his clothing, reminding him of a New England winter. Ice had formed again on the lower parts of the standing rigging.

  There was no time for coffee or ship’s biscuits. As soon as the upper topsail yard had been raised, Priest and the other top-men assigned to the foremast were aloft, overhauling the tackle needed to let fall sail. With the yard raised to the cap and ready, Priest and the other top-men loosened the sail from its gaskets and let it fall upon command. Minutes later, the upper and lower topsails on the fore and main-masts were braced and filled. Priest smiled to himself; these sails, the flying jib, the fore and main topsails, the main topgallant staysail, and the spanker would propel her forward into the strait while lifting her bow. He was learning and pleased with himself. So pleased, he momentarily forgot the pain caused by the saltwater boils on his legs and the salt sores on the bottoms of his hands.

  The visibility was good from Priest’s lookout station high aloft the foremast. He could see the promontory of Cabo San Diego pass astern and could see the rocks guarding it. The rocks were small island peaks surrounded by black kelp beds. As the ship moved south through the strait, the moon illuminated the surf breaking against the shore. The line of luminescent white lapped powerfully, making a roar, but by Priest’s estimation, the ship’s offing was at least three miles. Although the evergreen trees of Tierra del Fuego appeared black in the overcast moonlight, the undulating surf line and the snow in the highlands stood out white and provided depth of vision.

  Staten Island was all chiseled mountain rock, white, tall, and wildly beautiful, with the muscular beauty of large predator cats. Their stillness reminded him of a lion’s eyes, deep set, with an expressionless stare that hid the danger within. Priest’s emotions, still accustomed to open horizons, told him both sides of the strait seemed to be near enough to touch, and the anxiety encroached on his comfort. It seemed that as soon as the rocks around the perimeter of Cabo San Diego passed astern to starboard, more rocks appeared to port off the Staten Islands, the snow tiger’s teeth and claws. Priest thought the tide must be flowing into the strait from the south, as the surf was violent and filled the cold air with its roar. The waning moon, virtually full, meant the tide would still be high and powerful. The ship crept forward against the tide’s flow.

  Four Bells, Middle Watch (2 a.m.)

  Griffin stood outside the open starboard door of the wheelhouse. His face must show no emotion. He knew Carver must believe he had total confidence in him. He knew the men watched him for any sign that he might be afraid. He and his officers were not the only men aboard who had experience with the Le Maire Strait. Despite his demeanor, his mind weighed his decision.

  Twenty-nine point six inches of mercury! Should I have waited? We’re offshore from Bahia Buen Suceso, past Caleta San Mauricio. Two reasonably good positions using distance off calculations. Carver likes this, the tables, measuring distance, right triangles. The man loves piloting. He’s estimating the current’s drift, what? Two knots is reasonable, maybe as much as three? Yes, Peleg, three is better. Four? Eyeballing it? You must see to tell distance over ground.

  Steer south-southwest by one-quarter west. The tide is ebbing now. Winds southwest. We’ll go faster in slack water; she’ll steer better too. Peleg trim—we’ll be in the passage sooner.

  Griffin’s stomach felt better; Carver balanced the helm with the spanker even as he thought of the need.

  Gale! Twenty-nine point five inches on the glass, the mercury steadily dropping. Driven snow. I can barely see the bowsprit. Topsails, reefed topgallants, spanker and main topgallant staysail, flying jib. She pitches fiercely. Who has the helm? Duder and Priest. The boy will get a lesson today. Port tack. Excellent. Wind’s from the southeast. How much leeway?

  “Mr. Carver, brace fore and main yards to the wind. How does she steer? How much weather helm?”

  Carver’s bracing to the wind. What’s he thinking? Brace to the wind. Keep headway, momentum. South-southwest by one-quarter west. I can see no landmarks. Twelve miles to the Drake Passage? It’s got to be less. What if I have to wear? How will we know? We can’t see. Leeway?

  “Duder, south-southwest by one-quarter west. Mr. Carver, the outer jib and double-reefed fore topgallant—if you please, sir.”

  An ebbing tide. How much weather helm? Watch, don’t ask. That’s Carver’s business. We’ll move southward.

  “Wind’s hauled forward. Green water! Head seas!”

  The bottom drops past Bahia Buen Suceso. She’ll ride better now. Smoother water. Spill the wind from the main. Brace square. Soundings. Sixty fathoms on the Tanner machine. Are we past Buen Suceso? Sixty fathoms, I’m in the southern part of the channel. Leeway? Are we between the Ensenada and Peninsula Lopez? Plenty room for a wear. Steer south-southwest by one-quarter west.

  ***

  Priest did not expect Mr. Lennon to place his arm suddenly across the wheelhouse door.

  “Listen to me. Priest, I know yews want ter help da old man and Mr. Carver navigate, but that ain’t yew’s lesson today. She’s steering south-southwest by one-quarter west. We’re blind in this snow. Can’t see a bloody quarter-mile. She’s has ter keep her course. Tide’s changing. Do yews understand me? We’re dead reckoning, and we’re blind.”

  Lennon lowered his arm and let Priest enter the wheelhouse. When Priest passed, Lennon placed an arm on Duder’s shoulder. “Watch him. He’s got ter learn.”

  The helmsman, John Stedwin, saw Duder approach to relieve him. “Sam, it’s blowing mostly west-southwest but wanders a bit to the south. Mate said to watch the current; it’s ebbing due south now. Watch how she steers. Be careful. The old man’s on deck. She’s steering south-southwest by one-quarter west. Careful when the wind wanders; she’ll loosen up by two spokes then.”

  Duder firmly repeated the course steered and turned to Priest.

  “Are you ready?”

  Priest replied, “Yes.”

  Duder placed his hands over the helmsman’s and assumed management of the wheel. “I’ve got her, south-southwest by one-quarter west.” Carver carefully observed the wheel being relieved.

  Priest relieved Smallbridge at the lee helm. John Stedwin and Smallbridge left the wheelhouse and became part of the on-deck watch. Smallbridge went aloft and Stedwin stood with his back against the wall of the deck cabin and in the shelter of its lee and his oilskins. Mr. Carver and the old man had gone to the chart room, giving the con to Lennon.

  It came on suddenly, sweeping northward from the Drake Passage. Providence was fighting, clawing her way to the top of the wave, only to have it pass beneath her, slamming her bow down amidst a crash and spray of cold water. Water rose in fat green columns from the sides of the bow and filled the ship’s mai
n deck. One man was knocked from his feet and carried by the rushing water into a bulwark. Another man pulled him to his feet. Smallbridge was pitched up off the foot-rope, and then struck violently in the stomach by the yard as the bow plummeted into the wave’s trough. He was held to the yard by the jackstay beckets ordered by the first mate. The wind was pushing wall after wall of foam-crested black water and spindrift before them, in an effort to prevent the ship’s forward movement, to trap her in a broach. The sails would shake but remained filled. She had steerage way.

  Priest heard Lennon give orders to brace the yards to the wind. He then ordered Duder to bring her up. Carver entered the wheelhouse and shouted, “Christ Almighty, Sam, careful, can’t let her broach!” Providence now met the head seas obliquely off her port bow. The force of wind and water still caused her bow to pitch upward, clear of the water. Duder told Priest to count the waves; every seventh was the big one. Water rushed past and under the hull, hitting the rudder with force. The wheel went slack, then suddenly started to turn hard to starboard, seemingly of its own volition. A spoke caught Priest’s right arm, raising a nasty bruise, but Priest held on and with the strength of both his arms turned the spoke upward. Duder shouted, “Hold fast. More. Hold it there.” As the rudder swung amidships, the wheel became taut with a weather helm and the ship was under control again close-hauled. Lennon, at Carver’s direction, trimmed sail for balance and to reduce the pitching.

  For two hours, Duder and Priest battled to keep management of the helm. After Lennon braced to the wind, the work eased but never ceased being demanding. An exhausted Nicholas Priest was euphoric to hear Duder’s relief repeat steering south-southwest by one-quarter west and assume the helm. He was ecstatic to see another pair of hands replace his own on the spokes. He had learned another lesson; you must watch the bow to see how the compass will move. Anticipate the wave’s effect and have the rudder in place before the wave hits; the faster the water, the more sensitive the rudder. All of this seemed so natural to Duder.